


Foreach

by Merkwerkee



Category: Void Jumpers
Genre: if at first you dont succeed, then time may not flow in a linear fashion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:33:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27372733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merkwerkee/pseuds/Merkwerkee
Summary: Humanity - can't live with it, can't destroy the galaxy without it. Much as one would wish otherwise.
Kudos: 1





	Foreach

When it came down to it, it was _always_ the humans.

The first plan was simple; go out into the mortal world, create a coil for their chosen one, and bring it to maturity in the safety of obscurity. One more mortal human amongst billions, lost in the background noise of the buzzing masses. Of course, that also necessitated a usable shell to raise it with, but it was no real trouble to pluck one of those out of the drug den it had been inhabiting. The mind was destroyed by what it had consumed and was the perfect vehicle for the raising process.

Of course, mortals and their mortal ways meant the shell had to hold down a job; tedious, but not insurmountable. Certainly, it was no great hardship for that which saw time from a step to the left. The chosen one was given his instruction in the evenings and taken away for care in the mornings. It had been going so well; they should have known that ‘so well’ was actually 'too well.’

It started with questions, as these things often do. “What happens after? Will my friends be alright? Why should I do this?” They answered him to the best of their abilities and took the shell again to the factory. When they’d come back that night, the chosen one had looked directly into their shell’s eyes and told them no.

Inconceivable.

They bargained. Pleaded. Begged. Threatened. Wheedled. Coerced. Through that and more, the chosen one remained adamant; he refused.

They withdrew and disposed of their mortal shell the next day.

The chosen one refused as they came to him in his dreams. He refused as they manipulated the jobs he took, pushing him ever closer to the edge. He refused as housing units mysteriously filled as he walked into them. He refused as gangs, egged on by the darkness in their souls descended upon him. He refused as the weather turned, as the seasons were subverted around him for one night.

He refused as the cold stole his feet, then his hands, then his breath.

Standing to the left of time, they watched as the possibility stream closed. This chosen one had not been wholly mortal, yet their investment did not return upon his demise. No matter, there was more where that had come from. They simply had to trace a single thread back from their desired outcome to a possible starting point and try again.

This time, they deliberately chose a strand that intersected with very few other mortals. Clearly their chosen one had been swayed from the prescribed path by the other mortals; if they could prevent those influences, and keep the chosen one wholly under their own, it would do much better. Another mortal coil was spun with star stuff, and another shell was found to care for it.

The location this time was remote, hard to find. Their chosen one could be raised in complete autonomy there, without interference. He would be raised to know what he needed to do, and when he needed to do it, and there would be no errors. No outside variables would be allowed to corrupt him away from the purpose they gave him, and they would reach the end goal whose web they desperately wove.

And thusly it seemed to go well. The boy was raised obedient but not stupid. He had no objections to the plans they told him, no inclination to balk at what would happen afterwards. Without the influence of the other mortals, this one was much easier to bend to their will.

Still, they had underestimated the other humans. As time slipped away into the web, the other humans came. There was nothing to be done about the fire that followed, and once again they were forced to take a step to the left of time and follow the threads.

The next three roils in the timelines do not go well. When no suitable shells are nearby to care for the chosen one’s mortal form, they are forced to give him over to the humans. Their first attempt is cut short by the vagaries of fate; the chosen one and his chosen caretakers are shot by a deranged mortal with a gun. Even with their ability to manipulate, they could not cut through the derangement in time and were forced to give the thread up as a loss.

Their next try is the worst; the mortals they left the chosen one with managed to ensnare him so thoroughly in their personal truths that to extricate him would be the work of more decades than the mortal coil would have time left. They reach a consensus in the third year of refusal and cut the thread to an abbreviated end.

The try after that comes the closest; his will worn down by the years and the hustle and bustle of his chosen habitation, he listens to them in the beginning. He taps the power they let him taste of, and agrees to their plans twice over. But when the time comes, he is as stubborn now as in the rest of the threads. He refused to leave the place where he lived. They are running out of threads, and so action is taken to try and encourage him to leave. He saves six children before the fire claims his life; they had miscalculated and brought the early terminus to this thread, rather than changing its direction to go to the end they wished.

The threads of possibility grow thin. The next four snap before they can be well-established; an unexpected sinking, a serial killer with a taste for the young, a mother who recognizes a changeling when she sees one, and an unfortunate slip on ice leave them with few enough threads left to try.

The next is by far the most promising, though its design is winding and uncertain. They spin up the mortal coil and set it on the steps of a very particular monastery. They watch from shadows within shadows as the place takes him in; from thread to thread they are not remembered, yet of all who would recognize them on sight the people here are the most likely.

They watch from afar as their chosen one grows, taking a certain amount of delight in the lessons being taught to the boy. If this thread followed the design they wished for it, the knowledge gained here would enhance the pattern they wished to achieve more than any other attempt they’d made so far. Of course, the chosen one had to _get_ there; they watched from the shadows and made adjustments as required. A stumble here, undermined self-confidence there, an enhancement of the tendency of the upper echelon to notice their chosen one - it all added up, and their chosen one was given over to a powerful light holder.

A young, powerful light holder more specifically; they could not touch her dreams, but they could touch others'. Greed, ambition, a lust for power - or even simple lust - were their tools, and in _this_ thread they were heard. Tools beyond merely animate bodies gave themselves over, and now they had the chosen one where they wanted him.

And he refused again.

The bonds between him and his family of happenstance were strong; in some cases, they were strong enough to see. Yet even the strongest bond could be frayed in time, and their plans had advanced beyond simple dreams.

His attempts to trick them were almost amusing, and they gave him a chance. They could not always understand mortal nature; it was why they needed a chosen one, after all. Perhaps his changeable mortal side had finally seen the true way they laid out in front of him and had chosen to embrace it.

Or maybe not.

Their chosen one landed in the focus, and they wasted no time. Their influence spread over him, and they felt him fight; he was of them as much as he was of the mortal world, and like called to like. His other side called them, and his mortal side called the light that had gathered in the crack of their prison. Power came, and they smiled at the chosen one.

“We told you; it’s always been you.”

As the power flooded him and their influence spread higher, they closed the distance. a little bit more.

“And this time, there can be no refusing.”


End file.
